There are some things that may happen in your life that leave marks, temporary or permanent. Most of these prompt questions from your peers, but the real reason they are there are often boring and stupid, so here are a few examples me and my friends have come up with to spice up the excuse life. I have a long (mostly faded now) scar on the back part of my left cheek from a surgury I got when I was 15. My excuse? A guy came at me with a knife and I had to get a surgeon to stitch it up. You should've seen the other guy. I have a friend who once died another friend's hair green. Her hands were green for a couple of days afterward. Her excuse? It's a long story, I strangled a smurf. (after the inevitible comment that smurfs and blue and her hands are green) That's why it's a long story. My mother has no depth perception and has often accumulated injuries that resulted from her inability to tell that something was 3 inches away rather than 5 feet. The funny thing is that the way she actually gets these injuries are all common excuses for injuries obtained domestic violence. My mom has: Fallen down the stairs, run into a door, failed to dodge a baseball (my fault), run into a tree, tripped over a variety of garden tools, and (through no fault of her own) has been the victim of a hit and run car accident involving a drunk driver (my dad, the legal expert, quoted a few state driving statutes and told him that his wife in a neck brace would be quite a sympathetic witness, so the guy fessed up). However, she makes her excuses so elaborate that nobody questions them, as it would ruin the moment, such as: Well, I was trying to get this bird out of the living room. I tried catching it in a bag as it flew down the chimney, but he pecked through the bag, then I chased him all around the living room with a sturdier bag and a net. I thought I had him when I swung the net at his perch on the mantle, but hit one of the decorations which came tumbling down onto my head. Then I knew it meant business, so I chased it with a righteous fury until it finally found the door and left. Sometimes, though, she doesn't feel like that and just says, "Oh, my husband hit me," which everyone knows means that if you told the real story, that's what everyone would think. When I got back from the Naval Acadamy, having dropped out for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was a broken leg, I had to get a checkup with an orthopedic (bone) surgeon. After examining my leg and the medical records of the first diagnosis, he asked how I managed to get it so thoroughly broken (it was a stress fracture and had just started to form at the first diagnosis, but had progressed until it was almost all the way through the bone). I told him the whole sad story of the detailers (read "drill seargents who were acutally upperclassmen) not believing I was injured and taking away my crutches so I had to run on the thing (and when I say run, I'm talking 20+ miles a day) for three days and barely avoided the mile and a half qualifier. It took so long for the doctor to believe they had the audacity to order me to do that and that I had the willpower to obey that I was tempted just to tell him that some guy kicked the break over and over again until I passed out from the pain. Everyone else got the story that we were learning martial arts and I kicked the punching bag enough to break my leg. I hope these have been humerous. Feel free to add your own.